


Death of a Stranger

by synteis



Series: 13th C Monastic AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 13th Century CE, Alternate Universe - Historical, Castle Construction, Crime & Punishment, Gen, Medieval Charity, Mutilation, gothic architecture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28019769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synteis/pseuds/synteis
Summary: In the early 13th C, men could lose an ear or a hand for theft.
Series: 13th C Monastic AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052363
Comments: 12
Kudos: 11
Collections: Recs from the Watchalong Room





	Death of a Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to the writing club for the weekly meetings, edits and encouragement and to everyone who helped out with research and encouragement while I rambled about this AU.

We enter into this story in the year 1200, at the dawn of a new century and in the region around Faverolles to a man who should have been a footnote but is instead deserving of a dissertation. That he is called Jean suggests that he was born on Saint John the Baptist's day. The name suited his life, as we will come to see.

His first appearance in the records is for theft. For some men, his seigneur would have extracted a fine for such a crime. Can any man who steals a loaf of bread worth a handful of deniers afford a fine tenfold that price? That price was taken out of his flesh instead. So are those at the bottom ranks of society, those peasants upon whom the entire endeavour relied upon, treated. Perhaps when he stole that loaf of bread, he had others to feed? But his trial was little recorded except for his punishment. The right ear lost, he was duly marked a thief for his lifetime.

Upon his return to Faverolles, he must have been scarce welcome, for he seems to have left not long after. Perhaps those who had tied him there and who had incentivized him to steal were no more. There are some people, then as now, who live so close to the edge that a single gust of ill wind can send them from those cliffs into the abyss below.

Were it not for a singular incident, he would have disappeared utterly into the past as so many do. His simple trial record could have been used only for those impersonal calculations into crime in the 12th C in France. But this was not to be.

The bishop of Digne lived in a strange arrangement. The cathédal, called Notre-Dame-du-Bourg de Digne, was in the nearby city of Bourg. Historically, the bishops thus had lived in the Bellegarde district, on a rocky hill called le Rochas. The previous bishop had begun the process of building an episcopal house more suited to the dignity of his rank. So grand were his plans for this "chateau" that it was said that he hired masons who had worked on le Château de Loches, that residence which Charles VII gave to Agnès Sorel, perhaps the most beautiful woman in the world.

At the time, there were many great projects to build castles and churches across Europe, and these projects were completed by groups of men and women who would travel from place to place. In a world of wood, they build in stone; where other dwellings were two stories, they could build into the sky. Such extraordinary endeavours brought together craftsmen of all kinds: men who seemed to understand the Lord's divine world in many extraordinary ways built alongside the simple labourers who carried the stone and the lumber required for such great projects. The western world then was made up of more languages than it is now and these teams seemed to hold all of them such that with enough time, a sensible man might pick up dialects and languages he would never have been exposed to in his birthplace.

It was here that Jean had found work. He was recorded only as Jean Le Cric, for one does not need two ears to lift stones. With long enough hair and the right kind of cap, such a loss can be hidden. Where others used all manners of tools, this man needed none of those, only the strength of his back.

Let us imagine the journey that a piece of stone would take. 

In the nearby quarries where Jean Le Cric worked, Estaillades limestone and sandstone were roughly cut out of the ground with only a chisel, hammer and wedge. The limestone was by far the harder, heavier stone which required the greatest care. Experienced men could see the fault lines in the rock and would chisel away a hole for the wedge such that when the wedge was hammered in, the stone would split. A mason would study the stone as though divining it, and from there would decide where men like Jean would take it. The stone could be carried, pushed up ramps, on sledges or in wheelbarrows, but each was powered by strong, hardworking men. Depending on its purpose, it might be further carved by a stone carver or simply brought to the walls. When the stones were fully dressed, it was time for them to fly. 

It seems extraordinary to us now, we who imagine the 12th C as a world fully apart with little technology, but they could lift all manner of things through wooden treadwheels. A pair of men would stand within them and walk forwards or backwards. The treadwheels were connected to a spindle and, via a system of pulleys, could raise or lower either a pallet of stone or single pieces. That is not to say that wheelbarrows, ladders and ramps were not in use, but the treadwheel was the miracle of its age, brought out of monastic libraries from Vitruvius' _De architectura_ into the light once more.

At the top of the walls, a builder would use limestone mortar to bed in the stone. Harder stone was used for the outer facing while softer stones filled the walls in. Standing on wooden scaffolding, each stone would be carefully laid such that a plumb line hung perfectly straight down. These skilled men would never allow for their buildings to tilt or sway. The stone would be hammered into its mortar and then the next would be laid. If a stone didn't quite fit it could be chiselled further. Where the facing stones were laid on their side, the fill was laid standing up, both forces working in opposition. The smallest amounts of metal were used. When we speak dismissively of the Middle Ages now, we should remember how long their walls have stood.

None of this speaks of the work of ropemakers, blacksmiths, woodturners, tile makers, glassmakers, brick makers, artists, carpenters, woodsmen. Men who had been blessed by God and whose work on the home of a bishop only emphasized that. They were that fine limestone facade, the lovingly carved arches, doorways and sculptures.

But what of all those who worked behind the scenes supporting these fine men? What of men like Jean Le Cric, who became reduced to the loads he could lift with little thought to what lived within his head? What of the cooks, the carters? Were they simply to bask in the light even as few considered them or their needs?

Or did some grow bitter as the years passed? Did stones fall and tear off the rough skin that was supposed to protect their hands? Were fingers trapped beneath stones? Toes crushed? Did backs grow like a tree in a dark alley in our present-day cities--bent and twisted, trying to grow towards any light while ultimately being unable to escape it?

They were like the fill of the walls, made of softer, more roughly cut stone perhaps, but essential for the work of construction. In a true château which must be ready for any siege, it is the fill which prevents the walls from crumbling in at the slightest bombardment. So too it was for the labourers: invisible, unappreciated and yet essential.

Where once those men and women had been valued by their communities and their families, few labourers leave their small towns for happy reasons, even as a mason may have no more joyous day than when he begins work on their first cathedral or castle.

These men and women had become detached from the land just as there is now a stream of people who leave their homes and proceed towards the cities. They lay their bodies onto the line of machines until their blood replaces the oil and their sweat the steam and still more arrive.

Jean Le Cric's detachment was even greater, for no matter what he earned, he could not send any back. He was severed completely from his home and from what family may still have lived. Anyone who recognized him would be a danger. Anyone who grew close to him might see the missing ear. He was caught between anonymity and damnation.

In 1208, that is to say, the fourth year of construction, seven years since Jean's trial, the old bishop died and was replaced by a very different man. The new bishop the people of Bourg and Digne called Sénhur Le Benvengut, for reasons which shall become apparent.

Matt. 25:35-36 and Matt. 25:40 were then interpreted by some, after Ambrose and Augustine, to mean that by the giving of alms, that is to say, charity, one could redeem one's soul. Bishop Myriel, who was at the time generally called "the new bishop", argued against this vehemently and would say that he saw all six acts of mercy to be necessary for every Christian.

For Bishop Myriel, there were no false or undeserving poor as some men claimed. The previous bishop had introduced tokens to be given to known deserving beggars. Myriel collected these and gave coin in exchange, such that anyone could enter his town and come to his door and he would create them as a brother with a warm meal, a glass of wine and an easy ear.

Saint Martin de Tours split his cape in half to give to a beggar, and yet it is said that Bishop Myriel would sooner give his cape off of his back then split it. Indeed, he gave away almost all of the possessions which the bishopric had accumulated, eagerly pressing fine linens into the arms of women and jewels into the hands of beggars. 

He funded classes so that all men could learn at least to spell their names. Where some men would found _leprosaria_ and go forth to kiss the lepers’ sores and make themselves seem more holy by comparison, the bishop gave sizeable parts of his funds to their care such that no town in all of France had lepers clothed in more comfortable clothing, and when the old _leposarium_ was the victim of a landslide, gave up his own home and bed to house them and then the funds to build a new location.

He continued in this fashion until he was the only bishop in France to be clad in sack-cloth; and yet, while later mendicant friars would glorify such an existence as holy suffering, he never glorified his self-imposed way of life, rather emphasizing that as the needs of his community were great, so were his own modest. His only indulgence was a set of silver cutlery which he ate with and a pair of silver candlesticks, as well as the company of his sister and their single serving-woman.

Some parishioners asked Sénhur Le Benvengut, as he was by then known, why he had not taken monastic orders or become an anchorite, such was his asceticism. But to them he had a ready answer always, saying, "If I were a monk or an anchorite, I would be locked away from the rest of you, unable to give as generously as I can as a bishop. I would be distanced from my flock and unable to minister to your souls or to listen to your problems. Is it not better that the resources of a bishop be used on our town and that the gifts of charity which are given to the Church see immediate use?"

What purpose does such a man have for a château? But even less purpose can be found for a half-finished project, and so he continued to fund the work, cutting back on extravagances where possible. He doubtless understood that such heavy stone walls could have Christian purposes as well, for it is known that even the Cistercians, who give up everything for labour, have stone buildings which resist fires as well as attacks. Digne and Bourg, placed where they were, were under the protection of the Counts of Toulouse, who were in turn caught between the king of Aragon, the king of France, the Holy Roman Emperor, and even Henry II of England. It is not surprising, then, that this holy man allowed such construction to continue.

His small garden, where he grew all manner of fruits and vegetables which anyone could pick for themselves, was, in fact, larger than his home, which had been abandoned before his tenancy. His main dreams for the château were of the larger adjoining garden, which he hoped would allow the sizeable portion of his annual revenue which he dedicated to giving away food to stretch even further.

How can two such different men, a bishop and a simple labourer, meet? Only through tragedy.

A man called Fauchelevent, who was old enough that he was known simply as le Père Fauchelevant, was a carter on the site. He was from Bourg and was remembered to have disapproved of the endeavour for all that it employed him. A different style of architecture would have allowed for the work to be completed entirely by locals, he had often commented. 

Can we not imagine that his bitterness would grow, especially towards the labourers that they had brought in? Rather than use the town's young men, the bishop was thus passing money to these outsiders. In fact, at the time, those men from the north would have spoken a language quite different from the people in the south.

Imagine then how Jean Le Cric would have seemed to this man! He could carry stones great distances, ignoring carters like Père Fauchelevent! Why, it was as though with each stone he lifted, this nose raised higher and higher! This peasant labourer from the north!

It was the day when the keystone for the private chapel was to be laid. How the masons had laboured on that piece, for it held up the entire roof! Like a cathedral, the roof was all in stone, rather than wood like the rest of the building. Such a feat of engineering, even now! 

Limestone is terribly heavy, especially those pieces which must hold up a roof in the style of architecture called then _Opus Francigenum_ and which we know instead as Gothic. The _Basilique royale de Saint-Denis_ 's grand style had spread slowly but thoroughly throughout the 12th C and had extended even as far as Digne, at least in the hands of an ambitious bishop. Sénhur Le Benvengut had inherited this extravagance. 

It had rained the previous day, thus delaying the raising of the roof, and the rain had only stoked the appetites for spectacle further.

This included Père Fauchelevent, whose very cart had brought the keystone from the masons' lodge to the chapel. No one noticed whether Jean Le Cric was present or not but Père Fauchelevent had a commanding spot.

All were gathered around the private chapel, watching and waiting as each stone was tied with a rope, attached to the treadwheel, and slowly and carefully raised onto the scaffolding. 

Then the keystone started to tilt and people pressed closer in horror rather than running away in fear. 

A twang ran out. 

The rope at last had snapped and there was a moment of silence before chaos. 

Little better than beasts, they stampeded away. What was revealed was Père Fauchelevent trapped beneath that great and terrible piece of Estaillades limestone. 

"At least it is local limestone and not some imported material," someone may have whispered.

Jean Le Cric was the only man who stepped forward. He had no power then to compel men to do their duty and be generous unto others. All he had was the strength of his back and of his own character.

He had to kneel on one knee in the mud to get enough leverage over this great block of limestone. As Fauchelevent struggled under the weight, he sunk deeper, the stone slick with mud.

All was silent once more except for the grunts and exhales of Jean Le Cric. Some of the watchers crossed themselves.

What attention does one pay to one’s cap when a man's life hangs in the balance? When one's hair sweats, what can one do but push it back? 

And then the stone began to rise! He pushed with great arms and pressed it up but no one moved.

"Draw him out," the man cried and they hastened to follow his instructions. One could almost imagine at that moment, a man of far greater standing, respected, a leader of his community. Only when he was rescued did Jean Le Cric allow his burden to rest on the ground once more.

He bent over, breathing terribly.

When he rose up, all assembled were looking at him but it was not with joy but with fear.

The missing ear had been revealed.

Thus two communities which had known some conflict over the past four years were at last in agreement. Such a complicated matter could only be brought before the bishop. 

None knew what he had stolen; Boug and Faverolles were almost as far from each other as one can imagine and still be within what we now know as France. 

Was this man to be chased from his second profession?

Jean Le Cric must have heard talk of the character of Sénhur Le Benvengut. Perhaps he should have trusted in the bishop's judgement. 

Jean Le Cric was kept in a single room while the town argued. When his door was opened, he was prodded out by his knowledge and experience of social damnation.

Imagine the jeers of the town when Jean walked over to the bishop's house, trusted only to do this much because he was under complete supervision! 

"Take off the cap!" were the cries. Rotten fruits and vegetables were thrown, ruining his clothing. 

How similar it must have been to the scene the day of his mutilation!

The pain of mutilation is as much a wound of the mind and heart as it is of the body. A man will remember that it was the worst pain he ever felt but cannot grasp the memory of its tyranny in his hands. 

For some, this makes them foolish and so they cause themselves the same harms over and over, forgetting each time just how terribly it hurts. 

For others, forgetting makes them fear it all the more.

Jean Le Cric didn't say a harsh word to the crowd, simply accepted their judgement.

He entered the small house and stood in the doorway, his head bowed. Although it was clear that he was a strong man, the shabbiness of his clothing made him a poor one and the stains, a desperate one.

After some time, he raised his head. The bishop was present but had said nothing, merely clasped his hands in front of his body.

Two women stood at the side of the room, one in fine but well-used clothing of a style two decades past and the other in the hard-wearing clothing of a peasant. The first had eyes only for her brother, for this was Mademoiselle Baptistine, while the second looked at Jean with suspicion.

At last, the bishop made to speak but Jean interrupted him.

"–After I stole, my ear was taken from me. My family could not keep me, a mob turned me out of the village. Since then I have been an itinerant labourer, most recently here. I told no one about my ear and made every pain to conceal it. Now I am revealed and the town would like you to expel me from it. Before you do, may I have a glass of water and some bread for the road? I haven't had any food since yesterday morning."

"Let me offer you food and fresh clothing, monsieur. You cannot go anywhere like that," were the bishop's first words.

Jean Le Cric did not move for a time. When he did, he shook.

"Why do you call me monsieur? You must be aware that I am a dangerous man, monseigneur," tried Jean, the words spilling over each other. "I could have lost this ear doing the most terrible things! It was lost through the judgement of a seigneur, not an accident!"

"Madame Magloire has already set the table, will you come through?" Then he continued, "The soul's sanctity is more important than the body's but the body must be fed or the soul withers."

A bishop, especially when he is a good man, has an irresistible air of authority when he chooses to use it. Jean shook his head but could do nothing other than following the bishop to the table. 

The food was simple and yet generous. Jean had not had food since the morning of the incident. The bishop spoke of places where Jean might find work beyond that of a labourer but Jean took little mind. He had given in to the needs of his body and finished three servings before he noticed what he held in his hands.

Fine silverware! Trusted in his hands!

It was unthinkable.

A man such as him, hounded by misery--how loud did the voices in his head grow with every bite, caught as he was between salvation and the inferno? And yet he had stolen nothing, he had saved a man's life, risking his own in the process. Such is the weight of suspicion and gossip and the curse of corporal punishment, that it can drive a man to such actions as he took.

After dinner, the bishop showed Jean his bed, which had fine white linen sheets and a fresh straw mattress. 

Jean shook his head. "Is this how men of God punish? You serve me dinner with silverware and now a bed next to your own. You can take my hand just as easily now as tomorrow but you draw it out."

"All men are in God's hands, and God has given you strength and courage to be used; silver without purpose tarnishes. In fact, I have a more beloved and valuable artefact." 

And so the bishop showed Jean the way to his room, which shared a wall with Jean's own. On the wall, opposite a small window, where the light would hit them, were a pair of fine silver candlesticks. The bishop went even further and made the point that he never locked his own doors so that he could be available for anyone who needed him in the night.

Jean Le Cric was so exhausted that he slept without delay.

When he awoke, it was the middle of the night and there was a maelstrom in his head.

The laws of hospitality then were stricter than they are today. 

A night of kindness cannot replace years of neglect and cruelty.

This stranger could have killed the bishop. He could have awaited his judgement.

That very evening, compelled by instinct, Jean chose the middle path and escaped Bourg with a bag full of cutlery. He was caught in short order and taken before the bishop.

You may imagine that his sad life ended here, and in some ways it did, for the silver vanished and so too did Jean Le Cric's name.

It must be said, however, that there are many ways for a man to lose his life. Shortly thereafter, an adult postulant entered the nearby Abbaye du Thoronet, home of those strict Cistercians. A beautiful gift of silver accompanied him, fit for a bishop.

They called him Brother Madeleine.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love the hear any reactions or concrit you might have. historical corrections are totally allowed. There are plans for many more glimpses into this AU across the course of Les misérables.
> 
>  **Bibliography:**  
>  Charity in Medieval Europe resources:  
> Davis, Adam J. "The social and religious meanings of charity in medieval Europe." History Compass 12, no. 12 (2014): 935-950.  
> 13th castle building resources:  
> Guédelon and Secrets of the Castle, BBC  
> Digne resources:  
> "Les Résidences épiscopales de Digne"


End file.
